I'm not a talented enough writer to describe the humility and pure terror I felt before stepping in to the ICU ward at a hospice in Lusaka, Zambia during our first field visit.  Until you've seen it, heard it, felt it, smelled it...you can't really understand the tragedy that has prematurely ended lives, torn apart families, and threatened the very survival of entire nations.  I must have been green and stumbling when I entered that room.  And I was thinking to myself, what kind of loving, merciful god would tolerate this sort of tragedy?

Turns out, God wasn't tolerating it at all.  Entering that room, I saw God in action, more loving and merciful than I could ever imagine.  In that room was not just hope, but a resilient expectation for a return to a normal long life.  There was incredible love that radiated from the doctors and nurses caring for these people.  We learned that the name of the hospice had changed - it was now called a "Return to Life Center," as that is what the patients there did.  They returned to life.  I knew leaving that ward that my new friend Simon - a patient I met in the ICU - would one day return to his work as a brick maker.  And I was grateful for his candor about his experience.  We continued our tour of the facility, where we met dieticians who were finding great success with new food products that were helping rebuild wasted bodies.  We met volunteers from all over the world working there whose actions declared, "These people are valued!"  The god who I experienced that day wasn't Christian or Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, pagan, or otherwise.  He was revealing himself to us though, every way He could get through.  And He got through with great glory.

In South Africa, we visited a hospice with a pediatric ward.  The images and memory of that visit are still vivid in my mind.  A little girl came up to me to talk.  I'm ashamed to say I was still a bit uneasy of my surroundings.  I thought she was maybe 7 or 8 years old.  Turns out, she was 13 - stunted from growth during early childhood due to AIDS and malnutrition.  She was a miracle.  She arrived at the hospice all alone not more than two weeks prior, begging for her life.  Her doctor, numbed by nearly two decades of service and enduring literally thousands of losses, had held little hope that she would survive more than a week after being admitted.  That's how terrible her condition was when she first arrived, and how hard treatment can be on the body.  She told me she prayed to God every day for help, and that day-by-day she was getting better.  Her prognosis had changed.  She had a new shot at life.

She asked me if we'd been sent there to help.  It was that precise moment I let God back into my life.  Opening my arms and embracing her as if she were my own daughter, the only reply I could muster was, "Yes."  As she clung to me, trembling, I felt her fear and doubt steel into strength and resolve.  Hands on her hips she proudly declared that she wants to be a nurse when she grows up.  I saw in her eyes and knew in my heart that she will be one day.

A change had in fact occurred in me on that trip, but my renewed faith was still tenuous.  A few months later my uncle would pass away.  Then my boss, who had become a dear friend and mentor, died of cancer.  I realized I needed something more than just a renewed suspicion of God's existence.  I needed to participate in His community.  I needed to find and follow him.  And I needed the fellowship here at St. Thomas.'  Feeling defeated and about to be jobless, I found myself here on Ash Wednesday.  I don't think I'll ever forget our Rector Nancy Lee Jose marking me with ash, then gently embracing the side of my head.  Her gentle blessing said to me, "I understand, and you're going to be okay."  It was here I started to heal.  It was here I was able to feel love.  And it was here that I started learning how to truly love again.

In a very short time I've found a new devotion to a church that is an active and driving presence in my life.  I've learned that faith has everything to do with love and hope, and absolutely nothing to do with fear.  I've been reminded what it means to be subject to one another, as well as the joys and great dividends paid from acts of radical hospitality.

And so my friends, as we leave here tonight and head home to our families, head to our jobs, head to the voting booths, think about that guy from NASA who reminds us to don our coveralls, and pick up our brooms!  There is much work to be done.